And when the ennui endgame leaves us broke,the nineteenth century will come again,and cinch the river back into its yoke.The mounting sun will light the factory gate,upon the visage of the labouring folk

will rise the glow from the consumptive lung,the scalded factory dog will moan,the looms break into polyphonic song,the shuttle snap back with its to-and-fro,and wheels will claque along.

18 August 2013

On a Portrait of Me by my Son Dimitry

My specs are taking leave of the frontiers of my face, I’ve a pair of bright blue peepers, and a nose of shape unclear, while like a chocolate cataract my flowing beard cascades – I was never as attractive as the way that I look here.

Fugitive strokes escaping, running away in streaks, and damp has made the paper lose all its erstwhile shine, while two big rosy patches upon my chalky cheeks fly over my moustaches like flags with the Rising Sun.